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Rookie is an online magazine and book series for teenagers. Each month, a different editorial theme drives the writing, photography, and artwork that we publish. Learn more about us here, and find out how to submit your work here!

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When, at 20, I lost my virginity to my first boyfriend, Carl (not his real name), I’d kissed only one boy before him, and all of my other sexual experiences had taken place either with faceless boys online or inside my own bed, alone with my imagination. I grew up in an extremely traditional Vietnamese family and was sexually curious, but very sheltered. I’d never even used a tampon before—that’s how little experience I had with the insides of my nether regions.

“Are you sure?” Carl asked as we sat on the edge of his bed.

“Yep,” I said confidently. I’d heard the first time could hurt, but mostly I was excited. He put a condom on as I lay down, buzzing with anticipation. He pushed into me…and I screamed at the pain, which was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I ran to the bathroom and cried. I didn’t know if this was normal, but it felt excruciating. You never forget your first time—especially if it happens before you know you have vaginismus, a physical condition that makes penetrative sex incredibly painful or, in extreme cases, impossible.

When I confided in my sisters about the pain I felt during sex after keeping it a secret for months, they howled with laughter, asking, “Is it because you’re not wet enough?” They weren’t trying to be malicious—they just didn’t understand. I went back to my room and cried into my pillow, wishing they had taken it more seriously. I wished I could ask my parents for advice, but I knew they were off-limits because of their conservative values—my mom had long instilled in me that sex before marriage was reprehensible.

Each failed sex attempt with Carl was more painful than the last. We rarely talked about it, but his patience was visibly wearing thin. I tried to push through the pain and keep the spark alive, but it seemed futile, as his feelings about our sex life became more and more clear. Once, when we had phone sex, I said something about riding him, and he replied, “You can’t do that when it never actually goes in.” These little comments ate away at me, making me feel tiny and useless, and I began to dread every penetration attempt. After a while, it was much easier for me to pretend none of it was happening, and I stopped wanting to even try. Our relationship began to crumble, and so did my relationship with my own body. I felt alienated and heartbroken. It never occurred to me that I could seek professional help for the pain, or that it was in any way treatable.

When, six months after our first time, I tearfully declared that I wanted to go on a break, Carl said, “I’ve considered breaking up with you because you can’t do it properly.” It felt like a punch in the gut. I dumped him. He spent the next few weeks pleading with me to take him back, but it was too late. He’d amplified the little voice in my head that snarled, You’re too broken to love.

My next boyfriend, Peter, was kinder than Carl, and I thought things might be different with him sexually, too. We got along so well and everything we had done together had felt great and comfortable for me. We’d only been together a few weeks, and it was just a few months after everything had fallen apart with my ex, but everything about it felt good. So when he asked, “Are you sure?” when we decided it was time to have penetrative sex, I told him I was, and I meant it. Regardless of that mental certainty, the physical pain was the same. Trying to have sex was like a searing blade ripping through me. Although I’d never told Peter about the difficulties I had with sex before—I thought they might have been specific to Carl—he knew it wasn’t right when I cried out in agony, so he just held me while the tears came. He didn’t speak, he was just there, and though I felt ashamed and confused, I was thankful for the silence and the warmth.

When we talked about it after several equally painful attempts, Peter was incredibly supportive and patient. Sometimes, I resented him for that. Despite his constant reassurance that he loved me regardless, I wondered why he stuck around: Wasn’t this was taking as much of a toll on him as it was on me? Why didn’t he just leave me for a model that worked properly?

I began to fear all sexual contact. Though our relationship remained strong, I became more and more sexless, even as I simultaneously wanted sex more than ever. Thanks to my parents’ values, I grew up judging girls who had casual sex, but as I became more deeply absorbed in my own sexual issues, I began to envy them. I sat uncomfortably as groups of friends gossiped about sex and felt left out because I didn’t have anything to share, saying a tiny little prayer of thanks every time the conversation passed seamlessly by me so I could remain inconspicuous. Sometimes, I fantasized about living a different life and fucking hundreds, thousands of boys, just because I could.

So grateful that you opened up to not only us, but your mother too. Talking to your mother about things like that feel impossible and when they go well, it’s such a relief.

Keep owning your own body, girl!

cazzeroleOctober 22nd, 201412:05 AM

This is such an honest piece and I am in awe of your courage Giselle.

RubysleevesOctober 22nd, 20144:49 AM

I had vaginismus but didn’t know it. Growing up in a very strict Catholic family, I was taught to view premarital sex as a grave sin but that really conflicted with the physical intimacy that I was craving to have with my boyfriend. Things were so hard because I wanted to have sex with my boyfriend so much, but penetration was impossible, and it was so painful I literally scream and cry every single time. Although my boyfriend was very very patient with me, the situation exhausted our relationship and we broke up after three years. I became very very afraid of sexual intimacy, and felt guilty and ashamed, I thought that something was terribly wrong for me, that maybe God was punishing me for actually wanting to have sex. Then one day I googled my symptoms with penetration and like Giselle found out everything about vaginismus. At that time I was dating someone new, an older guy, and I knew that we would have sex soon. So I tried Kegal exercises on my own, but I realize that my biggest obstacle was how I view sex and how I view myself actually performing such an act. In the end I wrote five pages in my diary, really conversing with myself on how I felt about sex. I reconciled with myself, and when I had sex with my current boyfriend, it was painless. ANDDD it actually felt pretty amazing. I guess the whole point of my story is that while vaginismus for some people is an involuntary muscle contraction, for some it might be a deeper issue. And you really want to talk to yourself to know how you really feel about sex, if you’re ready and embracing such a choice.

alexithymiaOctober 22nd, 201412:21 PM

I am so proud of you for opening up about this subject! And Rookie, for posting it.

This is the best website ever and this article made me teary eyed.

“Just as there is no “normal-looking vagina or labia”, there’s also no normal sexual experience.” — this is SO IMPORTANT.

Thank you.

fast french braidOctober 22nd, 20143:12 PM

Thank you for this–it is SO similar to my own experience with vaginismus, especially in the way it crumbled my relationship. After years of pain and confusion about it, and many doctors who just said I needed to “relax,” it wasn’t until my mid-20s that I found a doctor who introduced me to the term “vaginismus,” and to the physical therapist who ended up changing my life. I will never forget the morning I came to my PT appointment and reported to her that I had had pain-free penetrative sex, and we both cried. It had taken so much work. Thanks for your bravery in bringing more awareness to this issue.

kbellzOctober 22nd, 20145:29 PM

Thankyou so much! I really never read Rookie but I just decided to check it out and this was one of the first pieces I saw/read. I’m almost positive that I have vaginismus however im only 17 and don’t want to have to ask my mom to take me to a doctor because she and the doctor will probably think I’m too young to care about having intercourse but I’m so ready for it and I want to and it sucks having to wait because of something that’s out of my control. It’s always great to know I’m not alone :)

NovaGirlOctober 22nd, 20148:29 PM

I too suffered from painful intercourse for many many years – even with longtime boyfriends in safe and loving relationships. When the physical therapy wasn’t entirely effective for me, I actually had Botox injections in my vagina (done by a gynecologist with lots of experience with this treatment), which immediately stopped my pelvic muscles from involuntarily contracting/spasming. It was a little painful to get the shots – but far less physically and emotionally painful and traumatic than sex had been for me. The Botox is effective for only a few months, but once the body learns that vaginal penetration isn’t painful, the spasm response almost always stops for good. I would recommend it as a treatment option if you can find an experienced, trained health care professional and if you deal first with the emotional component of painful sex.

watr_lilyOctober 23rd, 20141:29 AM

<3 thank you so much for writing about this. I'm going through treatment for secondary vaginismus right now, and it helps so much to just know that other women have gone through the same thing.